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I remember that morning vividly—the air was cool and crisp, with that kind of fall breeze that feels like a quiet invitation to start fresh. My daughter was seven, my son nine, and we had the day off from school. My husband was working, my friends were busy, and I had reached that point every mom hits eventually—the place where you’re tired of waiting for someone else to say yes to what you want.

So I decided to go anyway. Just me, the kids, and the open road.

We packed up early, layering clothes against the chill, loading snacks, and stuffing our little adventure essentials into the backseat. The drive was three hours—just me behind the wheel, kids chatting in the back, a playlist humming softly. I’d planned everything carefully, or at least I thought I had. I was ready to prove to myself that I could do this—take my kids hiking on the coast of California, all by myself.

When we arrived, the fog was still lifting off the trees, golden light spilling through. The parking lot was half full, which gave me a little burst of confidence. But when I walked up to the trailhead, I froze. A wooden sign stood there, bold and unapologetic: TRAIL CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. My heart sank.

For a second, I almost turned around. The old me—the one who waited for someone else to make the plan, who second-guessed herself—was whispering, “See? This is why you don’t do things alone.” But another voice, quieter yet stronger, spoke back: “You can still make this work.”

So I grabbed my guidebook, scrolled through my phone, and found another nearby trail. It wasn’t the one I’d planned. But it was there, and that was enough.

We found the new trail a few miles away—a gentle, coastal path lined with tall grass and eucalyptus. I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t have a GPS map downloaded. I didn’t know how long the loop was. I was just trusting my memory and my gut.

The kids slipped on their CamelBak Mini M.U.L.E. Hydration Packs—their favorite little gear that made them feel like real hikers. I love these packs because they’re leakproof, easy to clean, and just the right size for little shoulders. The bite valve replacements are a lifesaver, too—durable and super simple to swap out after long days of use. For myself, I carried my trusty Nalgene water bottle—light, sturdy, and spill-proof even when tossed in the car afterward. It’s the same bottle I still use on every outing, and I’ve even written about why it’s my go-to in this post.

After this hike, I realized something: I had way less than the ten essentials every hiker is supposed to bring. No headlamp, no map, no first aid kit. Just snacks, water, and a mom who was learning as she went. It wasn’t ideal—but nothing went wrong. We were fine. And I knew that next time, I’d be more prepared. (If you’re a new hiking mom, I shared my must-haves in 5 Essentials That Make Hiking with Kids Easier for Moms.)

The trail was alive that day—runners, bikers, parents doing their thing, and kids racing ahead. I remember watching a dad teach his young son some bike techniques for the trail. I was both amazed and a little sad. Their confidence reminded me how new this still was for us. For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d waited too long to start these adventures.

But then I looked at my kids—their flushed cheeks, their laughter echoing through the trees—and I realized they weren’t comparing. They were just being. And maybe that’s what motherhood is really about—showing up imperfectly, doing your best with what you have, and letting your kids see that effort counts more than expertise.

They didn’t complain once that day. Not when the path twisted longer than expected, not when I wasn’t sure which way to turn at a fork. They were too busy soaking in the moment.

When we made it back to the car, I felt two things at once: relief and pride. The car had become our little home base—a place of snacks, warmth, and tired satisfaction. I strapped everyone in, turned on some music, and smiled as we pulled out of the dusty lot.

That drive back felt like exhaling after holding my breath all day. The car became, in a way, our second home. Over the years that followed, it would take us to lakes, forests, and campgrounds. We’d eat peanut butter sandwiches in that backseat, watch sunsets through the windshield, and use it as our safe place between every adventure. It reminded me that home isn’t just four walls—it’s anywhere you find peace, safety, and connection with your people.

That first solo hike didn’t turn me into a fearless adventurer overnight. But it did something more powerful: it showed me I didn’t need permission to start. No one needed to validate my plans or join me to make them worthwhile. My kids didn’t need a perfect itinerary to have fun—they just needed me to show up and try.

Now, every time I hesitate to plan something new, I think back to that closed trail, that improvised decision, and the sound of my kids laughing somewhere behind me on the path. That day taught me that courage often looks like a messy first try—and that’s okay.

If I could go back and tell that mom standing at the closed trailhead one thing, it would be this: You don’t need to know everything. You just need to go. The courage to take the first step—especially when no one else joins you—can change how you see yourself forever. That one hike didn’t just get me outside; it gave me permission to believe in myself again.

If this story inspired you to take your own first step, come share your journey with us. 👉 Join the Moms Go Adventure Group on Facebook — a community of moms who hike, camp, explore, and encourage each other to say yes to adventure.